


stay awake

by motherherbivore (Airheart)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alcohol, Background Optimus Prime/Ratchet - Freeform, Canon Blending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 12:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/motherherbivore
Summary: Cybertron's new beginning brought so many ends with it, and some bots have more trouble adjusting than others.





	stay awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueMinuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMinuet/gifts).



> [stay awake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9LwTIGLh6Y)
> 
>  
> 
> I mugged several continuities and stole their wallets to bring back for TFP, my boss
> 
> quick guide to the time units as I use them!
>
>> klick: minute  
> joor: hour  
> sub-cycle: week  
> meta-cycle: month  
> deca-cycle: year  
> vorn: Cybertronian version of a decade
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :D 

Ratchet spent a lot of time at the Well in the days following its reignition. He was there more often than not, and Knock Out didn’t know where he went when he wasn’t. He couldn't think of anywhere on the barely-resurrected planet that any bot would want to go—there were only burned out buildings and desolate plains beyond the small area of Iacon they had restored so far. Still, Ratchet found _somewhere_ to disappear to, and no one was exactly willing to share any details with Knock Out.

“Mind your own business,” Smokescreen told him.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Arcee snapped.

“Don’t stick your intake where it doesn’t belong,” said Wheeljack.

So Knock Out spent his days staying meekly out of the way. It seemed prudent to keep his head down—the Autobots were otherwise preoccupied with restorations and the shakeup in their command to bother him. After a while, Ratchet stopped appearing at the Well.

Sub-cycles went on, and more of Iacon took shape every day. The buildings were yet unadorned and utilitarian, but they were there, and bots slowly came to fill them. A ship arrived every meta-cycle or so, bringing anywhere from one to thirty bots, and every one of them immediately started pitching in where they could. Many of them knew the Autobots—a lot of old friends, from what Knock Out could tell. He soon grew tired of watching reunions.

It was boring, stuck on such an old rustbucket of a planet. The roads, what few were intact, weren’t built for racing, and there was no one to win against, anyway. No one to talk to, or even at. Knock Out took to searching for the Milky Way’s far-away frequencies and listening to whatever broadcasts he could unscramble: airplane pilots calling their towers, raw data from various rovers and satellites, the odd, unintelligible Russian broadcast. Sometimes, when the skies were clear and the space debris drifted just right, he could listen to music or catch a sports commentary of some sort. It was hardly entertainment, but it was better than nothing. Day in and day out, Knock Out sat on a balcony of a yet uninhabited apartment complex and listened idly, watching the construction all around him.

In the end, Ratchet found him.

He appeared suddenly, startling Knock Out when he opened the balcony doors. He looked the same—tired, stern, unapproachable—and there was nothing to hint at where he had disappeared to. Knock Out didn’t dare to ask.

“I have work for you,” Ratchet said.

“Do tell,” said Knock Out.

“Ultra Magnus is sending a construction team south, to rebuild Uraya and create another port hub for returning ships. We’re going with them.”

“I think not,” Knock Out scoffed. Ratchet just looked blandly at him.

“Would you rather go back to prison?”

Knock Out frowned.

* * *

 

It was a long drive to the Torus States. The uneven ground made Knock Out’s axles ache, and he nearly blew a tire on a torn-apart road.

“Why did we not open a ground bridge? Anything would be better than this endless drive,” he groaned, when the team stopped to refuel and let their engines cool. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his struts. “I wasn’t built for this.”

“No ground bridge,” Groundpounder grunted. He brushed past Knock Out to get to the fuel tanker. “Gotta ration the Energon til the scientists give us the okay. Who knows how long the planet can keep up this rate of production? You’re a car. Quit complaining.”

“I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand the nuances of possessing such a fine and precise alt mode,” Knock Out snapped at him. Groundpounder made a rude gesture without turning around.

“You need a stronger vehicle mode,” said Ratchet, before Knock Out could retort. He sat down on a displaced chunk of road and crossed his arms. Knock Out grimaced as he turned to face him and felt a bit of fine rust scraping in one of his joints.

“And exchange sleek British style for something boxy and Cybertronian? No, thank you.”

Ratchet regarded him silently, then looked out towards the road they still had ahead of them. It was mostly intact from that point on, but still, vorns without maintenance had left it rough with rust and pockmarked by acid rain.

“We’ll find you something,” he said at last, then nothing more. Knock Out didn’t speak again, either—his usual sarcasm and sharp wit felt grossly out of place. It was an odd feeling that he had never worried about before, but something in Ratchet’s flat, tired demeanor made him just quietly drive.

The team didn’t stop again until they reached the ruin of Uraya. Much of the rubble had been hauled away and melted down to reform into building material for Iacon, and now only skeletons of some buildings remained. They would be raising the city nearly from scratch.

The foreman wasted no time. His wheels had scarcely stopped spinning before he was transformed and giving directions. “The clean-up crew marked out the port site already,” he said, “but I want it double-checked. Get me a full inventory, too. Primus only knows what kind of bandits are out here.”

“Bandits?” Knock Out asked, as the crew started bustling about with their work. No one answered him. Ratchet drove up behind him and flashed his high beams.

“Keep going,” he said, “the medical station is further up.”

‘Medical station’ was a bit generous. It was little more than a sheet metal shed on a hill, with a single berth and a couple of dented cabinets in the back. There was one console, nowhere to sit or host a recovering patient. Knock Out grimaced at the whole thing.

“Are we to stay here until the whole city is rebuilt?” he asked. He swiped two fingers over the berth and checked them for rust.

“Until a real clinic is built.” Ratchet was already unloading supplies from his subspace into the cabinets. “But restoring the port is first. We’ll be in here for a deca-cycle.”

“A _deca-_ cycle _?_ ”

“Maybe longer.”

Knock Out looked around at the cramped space again and sighed.

“And this was supposed to be the alternative to prison,” he said, as Ratchet started making a list of equipment they would need to request from Iacon.

* * *

 

Construction accidents were, thankfully, few and far between, so most of their work was maintenance. The workers came in regularly to have pistons lubricated, axles realigned, Energon regulators checked and primed. It was boring, but easy enough. Knock Out was especially quick at it; after so many deca-cycles working with an army, he had a system. He tried to show Ratchet, but the old medic wasn’t interested.

“My way works,” he said. “It’s a few klicks slower, but you don’t risk making mistakes.”

“I haven’t made any mistakes.”

“Yet. We need to be following the same procedures. Understood?”

Knock Out frowned, but nodded. “Fine.”

So they found a rhythm. Ratchet tended to delegate the small injuries to Knock Out—pinched cables, dented armor, a backstrut flexed out of alignment. The more serious ones went to Ratchet, and the worst were airlifted to Iacon. Knock Out didn’t complain. He knew how to make a little repair here and there, and Ratchet didn’t have to hover over him while he worked.

When the day’s work was done and the clatter and noise of construction stopped, there was little neighborhood of temporary lean-tos for them to retire to. Knock Out’s evenings were quiet—the construction workers liked to refuel together, and Ratchet fell back into that habit of disappearing when he wasn’t immediately needed. It was boring at best, and Knock Out downloaded half a dozen books off the Grid to distract himself before it got depressing. His written Cybertronian needed work, anyway. He could only get so far on things he had memorized during the war, and he reached his end the first time Groundpounder came into the medical station with impact fractures in both wrists.

Knock Out hooked up the proper monitors and prepared an injector with a local anesthetic to numb the breaks, but Groundpounder shook his head.

“I’ll just power down,” he said. “Don’t like seeing the stuff that’s s’pposed to stay inside.”

“That’s fine,” said Ratchet. Groundpounder settled back on the berth and went into stasis, and Ratchet handed Knock Out a bottle of disinfectant spray.

“I already cleaned the injury site,” Knock Out said.

“That’s for your hands. And get out another tool packet. I only have one over here.”

When Knock Out didn’t immediately move or reply, Ratchet turned to look at him.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, brows raised. Knock Out tightened his grip on the disinfectant bottle.

“Of course not,” he said, and prepped for surgery.

They each worked on a wrist, straightening the struts and applying medigel to the breaks in Groundpounder’s protoform. It was simple enough—broken struts had cut a fuel line in the left wrist, and more were pinched in the protoform fractures. Knock Out had seen similar injuries. It was always a quick fix, and a trooper would be back in the ranks in a joor.

Then they came to the damaged line. “I can cut it here,” Knock Out said, indicating the split cable with two fingers, “and reattach it back here.” He pointed again.

“Absolutely not,” Ratchet said. Knock Out frowned.

“What? Why do you never take my suggestions?”

“Because your suggestions are terrible. Connect the central cubital line to a peripheral—” Ratchet scoffed, shaking his head. Knock Out put one hand on his hip.

“It worked on hundreds of troopers during the war.”

“Get out,” Ratchet said sharply.

Knock Out blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. We’ll discuss this when I’m done here.”

For a few seconds, Knock Out just stood there, hands tensed at his sides. When Ratchet didn’t spare him another glance, he turned and strode out of the clinic.

He tried to look purposeful while he waited. He paced back and forth, pretended to count crates of spare armor plating, but there was really very little for him to do. The workers weren’t paying attention to him, anyway.

A joor passed. Knock Out considered driving off, but the thought of what Ratchet might do to him tomorrow if he left made him stay. Then he shook his head—intimidated by _Ratchet?_ He never would have expected it. There was just something quietly menacing about his brusque, humorless attitude.

Groundpounder finally emerged from the clinic, fresh welds on his wrists carefully covered with mesh patches. Ratchet was right behind him.

“Make sure you watch your alignment while you’re breaking ground,” he was saying. “The nearest chiropractor is in Praxis—I can give you a referral, but you need to be careful until you can see her.”

“Will do, doc,” said Groundpounder.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry.” Groundpounder waved, then transformed and drove off. Ratchet watched him go until the sound of his engine had faded.

“Knock Out,” he said then, not turning to look at him, “you _are_ a doctor, aren’t you?”

Knock Out straightened up. “Of course I am. I still have the original transmission of my diploma and credentials, if you don’t believe me.”

“Then explain to me why you are so terrible at this job.”

Knock Out bristled. “Excuse me, I was the top in my field on Velocitron.”

“And what field was that, exactly?” Ratchet asked.

“Upgrades and cosmetic surgery.” Ratchet turned to look at him now, and Knock Out rushed on, “Bots would happily wait a deca-cycle or more just for a consultation with me. I worked with some of the greatest racers in history, and it would be no exaggeration to say that my work won races.”

He tried to stay proud and stand tall, but under Ratchet’s flat gaze, he deflated.  “I only took one, rather basic medical course. My focus was anatomy and aerodynamics, with some emphasis on programming and engineering. Not the flow circuit or protoform microanatomy.”

“Velocitron has lax standards for their doctors, I see,” said Ratchet. Knock Out wouldn’t disagree.

“We don’t waste time learning things that are not directly relevant to our fields. I had nurses who took care of preparation and post-op procedures, all the vitals and other—” He waved a hand— “arbitrary nonsense during surgery.”

“Arbitrary!” Ratchet snorted. “Megatron must have been truly desperate to take you on as his medical officer.”

“I was never supposed to be an officer. Megatron wanted me to design integrated weapon systems.” Knock Out shook his head. “And I was damn good at it, but as we lost more and more officers, I had to take on more responsibilities. I eventually simply… ended up, at the top of the medical division.”

Ratchet shook his head too, exasperated. “It’s a wonder that you managed to keep the army alive.”

“You know very well that I didn’t,” said Knock Out sourly. “And my job was not to keep them alive. Megatron couldn’t have cared less about those faceless troopers. ”

“And you did?”

Knock Out didn’t respond to that for a while. Then he shrugged. “They were little more than drones. Soundwave built rudimentary personality modules for them, but I reused those when they were intact. I never thought of them as patients. I just did what worked.”

He waited for Ratchet to speak, to lecture him on the duty of a physician, even insult him. But Ratchet was quiet, leaning against a stack of supply crates and watching the construction in the distance. His face was unreadable.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose I’ll just have to train you myself.”

“Really?” Knock Out asked, surprised.

“You’ll still have to go through an accredited course to get an actual degree, whenever we have a university again,” said Ratchet. “But I’ll call you my apprentice and that will be good enough until then.” He straightened up, and started to head back inside. “First lesson: why you should _never_ splice lines together. Come on.”

* * *

 

Slowly but surely, Uraya rose around them. The port was finished, and a district took shape around it, crawling outwards in a precisely geometric way. Everything was carefully planned and laid out, without a bit of waste. The ancient Vector Sigma guided them all, providing the old city plans and showing them where improvements could be made.

Assistance came from the colonies, too, eventually—Archon and Theophany sent some of their own architects and city planners, and Caminus gave a few cityspeakers to help with the healing of the ancient cityformers that still sat dormant around the planet. Construction crews came from almost every colony.

The Velocitronians came into Uraya’s port late in the deca-cycle, the same day that the real clinic was finished. There had already been a small party planned for the clinic’s completion, but now it grew to celebrate the Velocitronians’ arrival, and it all put Knock Out in a good mood. He didn’t even complain when Ratchet told him to take inventory of all their equipment and supplies again.

“Someone you know on that ship?” asked Ratchet, as Knock Out glanced outside, towards the port again.

“Not likely,” Knock Out replied. “They’ve probably sent some infrastructure specialists and roadway designers. I ran with a higher class.” He logged twelve Mini-con size injectors into his datapad. “But it will be nice to see a Velocitronian frame again. I’m tired of the stacks of boxes you Cybertronians call frames. That’s one thing I could miss about the Decepticons—”

“Be careful of what you say next,” Ratchet warned. Knock Out gave him a _would I ever?_ look.

“I only mean that they had some nice figures. Sleek, aerodynamic… your Arcee isn’t terrible to look at, either. Almost Velocitronian.” He smirked. “Almost.”

“You should tell her that,” said Ratchet. “Her shape isn’t very popular here. Stacks of boxes are usually preferred.”

“And have my face smashed in? No, thank you,” said Knock Out, entering the contents of a box of in-line drip tubes into his datapad. “She’d take any excuse to put a few dents in my armor.”

“She always was my favorite,” Ratchet said. Knock Out rolled his optics.

They closed the clinic early, although now it was just a sheet metal shed again, and the construction crew would dismantle it first thing in the morning. All of their equipment went into boxes, and the boxes went into a trailer for a transporter to take to the new clinic. It was a beautiful little facility, with four examination rooms and a surgery suite. There was still nowhere to host a recovering patient for more than a few joors, but there was a full hospital under construction to the west.

“I must ask,” Knock Out said, as Ratchet and the transporter carried boxes in from the trailer, “who is paying for all this? I can’t imagine that the banks survived all this time.”

“Most of the hard laborers are volunteers,” said the transporter, a heavy-build named Carousel. “On Archon I was a bioengineering student, but I’ve got a tough alt so I signed up to help with restorations.”

Knock Out raised his brows. “I’m getting paid.”

“The volunteers get free housing for life,” Ratchet said. “We get credits to help rebuild the economy.” He handed Knock Out a box of mesh grafts. “I wouldn’t think about it too much.”

“I try not to,” Knock Out said. “I already have enough trouble with remembering Cybertronian currency values.”

“Twenty-six chips to a coin, thirteen coin to a shanix,” Ratchet reminded him.

“You aren’t Cybertronian?” Carousel asked.

“Stars, no,” said Knock Out. “I’m from Velocitron.”

“Why aren’t you living there?”

“It’s a long story,” Knock Out and Ratchet said in near-perfect unison. They looked at each other, and Knock Out raised his brows before returning his attention to the boxes he was supposed to be unpacking.

When they were done, Knock Out inspected a smudge on one of his digits and said, “You don’t need me for anything else, do you?”

Ratchet grunted. “Would it matter if I did?”

“I need to freshen up before the party. You should, too,” he added, casting an appraising glance at Ratchet. “I’d hate for the other Velocitronians to think that I associate with a slob. Their opinion of Cybertronians is likely low enough already.”

“How charming,” said Ratchet. He started disassembling one of the now-empty boxes. “You need not worry about my appearance. I’m not going to the party.”

Knock Out wasn’t surprised. “Well,” he said, “you should think about investing in an imported buffer, anyway.”

Ratchet didn’t reply. Knock Out stood there for a moment, then left, something turning in the back of his processor.

His night could have gone differently, should have gone differently. He’d been looking forward to it—his plating was shining, and he’d bought a bottle of engex to ingratiate himself with the Velocitronians. The party was a welcome break in the monotony of work and restorations. Even if it wasn’t the most glamorous affair, Knock Out was glad to go and do something different for once.

So when he looked out his apartment window and saw Ratchet on the street below, it frustrated him that he… paused. He stood at the window, still holding his sheepskin buffing cloth, and watched Ratchet drive past. The old medic was heading for the Sea of Rust. The party was in the opposite direction.

“Damn it,” Knock Out muttered, and tossed his cloth aside.

* * *

 

The Sea of Rust was no longer a sea, but a canyon cutting into Cybertron’s ribs. They were building power hubs along the bottom, to feed the Torus States and the Badlands and, eventually, the entire east sector. Knock Out used their progress to measure Cybertron’s wellbeing—as long as construction continued on those hubs, things were alright.

He found Ratchet sitting on the rim overlooking one of the construction sites, watching the builders. The crews worked tirelessly to bring energy to the recovering cities—while construction in Uraya ended by sundown, work in the Sea of Rust often went well into the night.

Ratchet glanced up when Knock Out approached, then looked back out at the site, shaking his head.

“I knew I should have taken the side streets out of the city,” he said.

“Then you would have missed out on my company,” said Knock Out. He sat down, letting his legs dangle off the rim, and leaned back on his hands. “Although, then _I_ wouldn’t be missing out on the party.”

“Did you really follow me, just to complain about following me?”

“Please, I’m not that pathetic.”

The corner of Ratchet’s mouth twitched, but his expression was back to plain and dry again in an instant. It was hard to read.

Knock Out thought for a moment, then reached into his subspace and pulled out the bottle of Terellion.

“This cost me a sub-cycle’s pay,” he said, shaking it slightly. “You’re not going to make me waste it, are you?”

Ratchet eyed him sideways. “Subtle, aren’t you?”

“What for?” Knock Out took out the two glass tumblers he’d specifically brought along, and held one out to Ratchet. After a few seconds, Ratchet took it.

Knock Out broke the seal on the bottle and filled both glasses. “I doubt the party has better fuel. Those workers will drink any swill.”

“Eons without a stable Energon supply will do that to you,” Ratchet said dryly. Knock Out shook his head.

“Is it always so gloomy with you?”

Ratchet took a sip of engex. “Maybe.”

Silence fell. Knock Out tapped his digits against the side of his glass, looking idly around at the construction, the opposite rim of the canyon, the stars. Ratchet just stared at one of the ground drills, occasionally taking another sip of engex.

“Why haven’t you gone back to Velocitron?” he asked suddenly. Knock Out blinked.

“What?”

“When the transporter asked earlier,” said Ratchet. “We both said it’s a long story, but I suspect we have different stories to tell.”

“Oh.” Knock Out looked out across the canyon again, thinking. “That’s just something you say when you don’t want to tell someone a story, isn’t it? It really isn’t a long one.”

Ratchet thought for a moment, too. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Velocitron has its problems,” said Knock Out. “We had our own civil war, not that anyone cares. It hasn’t quite recovered.” _We don’t all have the luxury of a Prime to sacrifice himself for our planet_ , he almost added, but stopped himself. “I have better chances here.”

“I see,” said Ratchet. He raised his glass to his mouth again, emptying it. Knock Out offered him the bottle. Ratchet hesitated, just barely, before taking it.

“This is out of character for you,” he said.

“Oh, very bold of you to assume that you know anything about me,” said Knock Out. “We may work together, but this is the first time I’ve found you anywhere outside of the clinic. You’re surprisingly sneaky, for such an old bot.”

“I don’t sneak,” said Ratchet, “you’re just self-absorbed.”

“Someone has to look out for number one.”

Ratchet rolled his optics and refilled his drink.

Knock Out drank half of his own before he spoke again. “You know, I do think about you. Quite often, actually.”

“Do you?”

“Since the reignition,” Knock Out said. “I always wondered where you went when you weren’t staring into the Well.”

Ratchet almost looked surprised. “Well, I was on Earth,” he said. “But Ultra Magnus needed me here.”

“To keep an eye on me?” Knock Out asked dryly. “He’s been waiting for a reason to throw me back in jail.”

“He didn’t mention you at all,” said Ratchet. “This may come as a surprise to you, but you are not of great concern to us.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Hm. If you have to ask, I’m clearly losing my touch.”

Knock Out shook his head, half-smiling, and reached for the bottle to top off his glass.

This time, the silence wasn’t so harsh as they sat there, passing the Terellion between them and watching the nighttime construction. A team of Mini-cons carefully guided a more massive coworker as she raised a beam for them to bolt in place. Another team loaded a trailer with sheets of woven steel threads to be laid as insulation inside the walls. The foreman stopped to show one of his workers a data pad. It was oddly peaceful, despite the noise of construction. It was familiar.

“Can I ask you something?” Knock Out said at last.

“I won’t stop you.”

Knock Out opened his mouth, then paused and peered at Ratchet. “How drunk are you?”

Ratchet laughed. “Just ask your question.”

“Why me?”

“Why you?”

“You don’t expect me to believe that you actually wanted to work with me,” said Knock Out. He waved a hand at the construction site below and added, “Especially not out here.”

“I needed a medic,” Ratchet said plainly. “Had I known you were an upgrade specialist, I would not have bothered.”

“You could have had anyone else. Pharma was there.”

Ratchet made a face. “I’ve worked with Pharma before. I refuse to do so again.”

Knock Out just looked at him, waiting for him to answer the original question. He knew that Ratchet’s choice had not been about convenience—this was the bot who knowingly sentenced himself to death just for a _chance_ at sabotaging Shockwave’s Predacon project.

Ratchet took his time, finishing the last of his drink and refilling the glass again before he spoke again.

“With Optimus we lost one of the kindest, purest sparks there could have been. He saw the potential good in everyone, even his enemies. I suppose...” He hesitated, swirling his drink idly. “I suppose a part of me needs to keep some of that idealism alive.”

“You were close, weren’t you?” asked Knock Out. He remembered Ratchet’s parting words to Prime, that day at the Well. He hadn’t given it much thought until now. It had always been well-known that Autobots loved their leader in a way that was not befitting an army, but Ratchet had been different.

Ratchet stiffened. He stared into his drink for a long moment, then said, “We were.”

“How did you meet?”

Ratchet gave a short bark of laughter. “I’m not _that_ overcharged,” he said. He drained the last of the engex and looked at the empty bottle for a moment before handing it back to Knock Out. “Splurge on some Fairfaxor next time and ask again.”

“I don’t get paid nearly enough for Fairfaxor,” said Knock Out sourly.

Ratchet leaned back on his hands and looked out to the stars. “No,” he said, smiling, “you don’t.”

* * *

 

The deca-cycles passed, and the construction crews eventually moved on from Uraya to the rest of the Torus States, then farther east to Stanix and Tagon Heights. Iacon and Kaon saw their universities restored, and the Hydrax Plateau was once again receiving ships from all over the solar system, bringing a sharp incline for the population and the morale of the whole planet. Cybertron was growing strong again.

What problems they had were nothing out of the ordinary—mild political tensions, the lingering fragility of a planet that had been ruined for eons. Knock Out didn’t pay them much attention. He had enough to occupy him, between getting his general practitioner degree and keeping up on all the necessary licensing, and working at the clinic. He had nothing to compare the current state of things to, anyway, except the wasteland that Cybertron had been before. Everything he knew of the Golden Age, the war before the exodus, all came from historical archives. He could not even compare it to Velocitron—despite their link, they were two deeply different planets, aesthetically and culturally.

Still, there were some things that were universal. Speed meant freedom, a bot’s alt mode reflected their pride, and a courier without a package never brought anything good.

He appeared late in the afternoon, empty-handed, apparently on the last stop of his route. The receptionist directed him to the office, where he stood awkwardly for a moment before reading from the omnitool in his forearm.

“Ratchet of Kretex?” he asked.

“That would be me,” said Ratchet. The courier opened a tiny slot under the omnitool, and gave Ratchet a data chip.

“Please confirm delivery,” he said. Ratchet gave his confirmation signature, and the courier hurried out before anyone could ask him a question. Ratchet raised his brows.

“Odd,” he said.

“What’s Kretex?” Knock Out asked, glancing up from his console. Ratchet slipped the chip into one of his data ports.

“It was a tiny village,” he said, frowning, “near the Sonic Canyons. It’s not there anymore.” He paused, optics narrowing as he read the message internally. “It’s a summons.”

Knock Out raised his brows. “Did one of your patients go to court?” They saw their fair share of assault and mugging victims in their clinic, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. But Ratchet shook his head.

“No, it isn’t a subpoena.” He was reading further, his frown deepening with every line. “It’s from the Capital Council.”

“Of course it is,” Knock Out scoffed, looking back to his work, “I should have known. Who else would waste the credits and fuel to send a _chip_ all the way out here? Not to mention the wasted time _,_ that courier didn’t look like he could break the sound barrier if his life depended on it.”

Ratchet didn’t seem to be listening now. He shuttered his optics once, then went to his console and opened a text channel on the Grid.

Over the next couple of joors, Ratchet’s console pinged frequently with a new message, and his expression grew more dour with each one. Knock Out tried to sneak a peek at some of them in spite of himself, but they were written in an Iaconian dialect that he wasn’t well-versed in, and he was too far away to pick out any familiar words in the glyphs. He resigned himself to doing actual work until Ratchet finally turned off his console and stepped back from it.

“Well?” he asked then. Ratchet reached into his subspace and took out the keycard to the pharmaceutical closet.

“I’ll be in the capital for a few days,” he said. “I’ve rescheduled Groundpound’s appointment, but you’ll be taking Neutro tomorrow.”

“And you won’t be telling me more than that,” Knock Out said, raising one brow. Ratchet held out the key, and he took it.

“I’m not the only one who has been contacted by this new council, but none of us have much more information than the others,” said Ratchet. He rubbed at the crest of his helm, optics shuttered. Then he shook his head. “I’ll find out once I’m in their chambers, won’t I?”

Knock Out turned the key over in his fingers once, then put it away. “I suppose you will.”

* * *

 

Ratchet returned four days later, just a few klicks before Knock Out was going to lock up the clinic, in perhaps the worst mood Knock Out had ever seen of him. It was a different sort of mood, though—not an irritable or angry one, but something that Knock Out couldn’t precisely name.

“Well?” he said.

“Is your license up to date?” Ratchet asked.

Knock Out frowned. “What—It’s not due to renew for another meta-cycle.”

“File now,” said Ratchet. “It could take a sub-cycle or more to process.”

“I know how to handle my practitioning license,” said Knock Out.

“Do it now,” Ratchet snapped. Knock Out drew himself up to his full height, putting his hands on his hips.

“Why are you suddenly so worried about my license?” he asked.

“You’re notorious for getting wrapped up in your own—”

“Excuse me?”

“—inconsequential business and forgetting—”

“Just what is your malfunction, Ratchet?” Knock Out demanded. “If something is bothering you, you can say it without attacking my character.”

Ratchet didn’t reply. He stood stiffly for a moment, then went to his console and switched it on. Knock Out crossed his arms.

“What did the council say?” he asked.

The console chimed a few times, and Ratchet started typing.

“Did your antiquated audio receptors finally give out? What did the council want with you?”

“The council is sending me off-world,” said Ratchet.

“Okay?” Knock Out frowned again, his brows drawing together. “Which colony?”

“No, not a colony,” said Ratchet. He drew a cable out of his arm and plugged into his console. A download screen popped up. “Two prison ships have gone missing. I’m a bounty hunter now.”

Knock Out couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Ratchet turned to look at him. There was no humor in his face, and Knock Out shook his head.

“I was going to suggest that we refuel at the Blue Deployer,” he said, “but now I think it’s better to skip straight to the engex.”

“For once,” Ratchet sighed, returning his attention to the download, “you’re right.”

* * *

 

“So,” Knock Out said at length. It was a joor later, and they were sitting in his apartment, a bottle of Terellion engex on the table and drinks in hand. He looked at Ratchet, brows raised. “What did you do to incur the council’s wrath?”

“Nothing. Well, not nothing—” Ratchet sighed, passing a hand over his face. “It’s not a simple matter of what I did or did not do. There is more to it than that.”

“It has something to do with the war,” Knock Out said, rather than asked. Ratchet nodded. “Old crimes catching up with you?”

“I never did anything that would be considered unethical under the duress of a global civil war,” said Ratchet.

“What a cleverly crafted answer.”

“I doubt you could say the same.”

Knock Out took a drink.

“And I am not the only one they’re doing this to,” said Ratchet. “I spoke with Ultra Magnus. He has the same assignment. It seems they’re targeting the Autobot officers.” His expression darkened. “At least, those of us who are left.”

“Can’t you demand a trial before the Chief Justice?”

“What for? So I can be publicly humiliated and convicted as a criminal? They don’t need a trial or a conviction to send me on a bounty mission. _Technically,_ I have the training. The council has found every technicality and exploited it. At least this way, I have a ship, and a stipend, and I am still free.”

Knock Out shrugged. “I just don’t understand why they are doing this now, when they’ve had nearly three vorns to bring you in.”

“It’s all politics. It’s only taken them this long to replace all of the veterans on the council.” Ratchet shook his head, reached for the bottle to refill his drink. “This _new_ council is trying to establish their authority and command respect.”

“I would have thought that they would come after me,” said Knock Out. “I’m the last living Decepticon officer, after all.”

Ratchet scoffed. “You said it yourself, you were never supposed to be an officer. You never even wore the insignia. I doubt Megatron wrote you into any official record.”

“I—”

“Are you going to volunteer to turn yourself in?”

Knock Out closed his mouth, opened it, closed it again. He picked up his glass instead, and the two of them sat in silence for a long time.

Then Knock Out stood and went to the cabinet.

“I was going to bring this out with a little more fanfare,” he said, pulling out a crystalline bottle of Fairfaxor’s Refined Core-Energon, “but you’ve ruined the mood. Just take it.”

Ratchet sat up a little straighter as Knock Out brought the bottle back to the table, and took it from him.

“This was bottled during the war,” he said, examining the laser-etched label on the back. Knock Out sneered as he pushed the still quarter-full bottle of Terellion aside.

“Yes, and don’t ask how much it cost, because I’d rather not remember.”

“I know how much it costs,” Ratchet said, unexpectedly soft. Knock Out looked at him, surprised by the wistfulness in his face. “Get some clean glasses, Knock Out.”

He did. Ratchet heated the gold seal with his integrated blowtorch until the metal was soft enough to split, then he carefully filled the glasses.

“Optimus gave me a bottle of Fairfaxor’s, a long time ago,” he said, sliding Knock Out’s drink over to him.

“What for? Was being a Prime not impressive enough for you?” Knock Out asked.

“It was only a title at the time, and one hastily bestowed. I knew him for years before that, anyway.” Ratchet tilted his glass slightly this way and that, watching the pearly blue-white engex swirl inside before he took a sip. Knock Out followed him.

Fairfaxor’s was famous, even on Velocitron, for its sweet-and-sour taste, and it was so thick and smooth that Knock Out felt like he had swallowed a mouthful of white oil. He coughed reflexively, as though he had to clear his intakes, but the feeling was gone in an instant, leaving behind just the taste and the comfort of a good refinement. It was a good bottle, and he was lucky to have gotten his hands on it—another vorn, and it would have congealed, making a slimy Energon gelatin. That’s probably why I didn’t have to sell my soul to get it, Knock Out thought, and took another sip.

Beside him, Ratchet seemed to be thinking the same thing, examining the bottle’s label again. “Thick, even by Fairfaxor standards. It’s not quite the same as I remember it, but that’s to be expected. Still,” he said, closing his optics for a moment, “it’s good.”

For a few klicks, Knock Out silently grappled with what would be a reasonable amount of time to wait before he pressed Ratchet to continue. How much did the old medic have to drink before he would talk about an old lover? He seemed reasonably charged, enough to be loose but not so much that he was drunk.

“What are you after?” Ratchet asked, before Knock Out could bite the bullet. Knock Out blinked.

“What?”

“Oh, don’t pretend. Plying me with expensive engex—you’ve had this planned since before I left. Out with it.”

Knock Out sat up a little straighter. “Fine,” he said, “I was trying to have some tact, but since we’re being blunt—I’m curious about your relationship with Prime.”

The look of wry amusement on Ratchet’s face faded to something more thoughtful. He took another drink.

“Something about you always got under Megatron’s plates,” Knock Out went on. “And the way Prime protected you so fiercely.”  
“Were there rumors in your ranks?” Ratchet asked.

“Some. Simple as the troopers were, they knew how to gossip. But it seems there was truth to it.”

“It’s not as though it was a secret,” said Ratchet. “In fact, I’m surprised that I was not targeted more.”

“So am I. I wonder how much sooner the war could have ended if they had tried just a little harder to kill you.”

To his surprise, Ratchet chuckled.

“No,” he said, “no, the war wouldn’t have ended.”

“You think you are so disposable?”

“I mean that Autobots have always been stronger than a Decepticon believed. Casualties are to be expected in a war as long and terrible as ours. They would have persevered.” Ratchet sipped his drink, optics half-closed as he relished the taste and texture for a moment. Then he waved a hand at Knock Out. “Stop bringing up the war. The thing itself went on long enough—we don’t need to keep it alive by talking about it constantly.”

“What if I want to want to ask you for fantastic war stories?” Knock Out asked. Ratchet shook his head.

“I don’t have any. I never sought glory or anything great. I just did my job.”

Knock Out tilted his head at Ratchet, smirking. “You and I both know that a medic sees the more interesting sides of a war,” he said. “You don’t have _any_ tales from your medical bay?”

“None that I care to share at the moment.”

“I need _something_ to entertain me besides expensive engex.”

“Here’s a thought,” Ratchet said wryly, “why don’t _you_ tell me a story. I know how much you enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

“I bought Fairfaxor’s to get you to talk,” Knock Out shot back.

“Well, we can go in circles like this all night, then.”

Knock Out shook his head, amused and annoyed at the same time. “Is this stubbornness how you earned such a high place in Prime’s ranks?”

“In part,” said Ratchet. “But, I was— _am_ very good at my job. That counts far more than my obstinance.”

“And your relationship with Prime didn’t have anything to do with it?”

Ratchet fell silent, and for a moment, Knock Out feared that he had crossed a line. He had been pressing all night, perhaps he had finally overstepped. He racked his processor for a way to steer the conversation in a different direction.

Then Ratchet shook his head and said, “No. It was the other way around. My position in his inner circle fostered the relationship. You get to know a bot in a different way when you spend long nights poring over military logistics, worrying for the fate of your planet. We were friends before, but… the war changed many things.” He sighed, seeming to resign himself to discussing the Great War that had consumed much of his life and the things he loved. “The Fairfaxor’s came from his personal stores. We opened it over medevac contingency plan revisions.”

“Drinking over war tactics?” Knock Out scoffed. “Not the best idea.”

“Do you want me to speak or not? Don’t interrupt.”

Knock Out inclined his head. “I can’t help it, sometimes. Go on.”

Ratchet drank from his glass. “No, it wasn’t the best idea. But we never used any of those plans. We never used them, but damned if I didn’t go over them every meta-cycle, even when nothing had changed. They don’t tell you about the minutiae of war, how much of it is simply… waiting. There is only so much you can plan, and half of it is thrown out the moment something happens, anyway. So, yes, we had a drink with our tactical planning. It made no difference.

“We made that bottle last until Tyger Pax. We’d only have a drink, maybe two every few vorns, but we emptied the bottle after that battle. Well,” Ratchet shook his head slightly, “really, _I_ emptied it. I could wax on about what that battle meant to us, but nothing I can say will make you understand what it’s like to have... “ He shook his head again, and took another drink. “Never mind. You were prying after my relationship. Why are you so interested, anyway?”

Knock Out waited a moment, in case it was a rhetorical question. Then he said, “It’s a simple curiosity. There were rumors on the warship. I heard a few things during the last years on Earth that piqued my interest, and what you said at the Well that day…” He could only shrug. “I wondered.”

“I find it hard to believe that you would do anything without something to gain.”

“Things change.”

Ratchet chuckled dryly. “That they do. So many things have changed, so much. This isn’t the Cybertron that I knew.” He sighed. “Perhaps it’s better that the council is sending me away.”

Knock Out couldn’t respond to that. He had never known Cybertron in the first place—he had no place to comment on what it was or wasn’t.

“I’m not going to offer to come with you,” he said finally.

“I wouldn’t want you to, anyway,” Ratchet replied, without missing a beat. “Someone has to run the clinic.”

They looked at each other. Then Knock Out said, “They’re really going to send a rustbucket like you out to catch criminals? You’re wholly unqualified.”

Ratchet glared at him now, but there was no real malice behind the look. It made Knock Out relax—the room had been a little heavy with talk of the war and things lost.

“I may be old, but I’m certainly not unqualified. I have my share of combat experience,” Ratchet said. He carefully refilled his glass. “It’s just… been a while.”

“I repeat,” said Knock Out, rolling his optics, “they’re really going to send a rustbucket like you out to catch criminals?”

This time, Ratchet chuckled.

“I don’t believe that they expect me to actually apprehend anyone,” he said. “This council just wants me gone.”

“Where will you go, then?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll actually do the job.” Ratchet sat heavily back in his seat. “Send a few war criminals back in a dozen pieces. Surprise them. Remind them how I _earned_ my position under Optimus.”

Knock Out started to snicker. Ratchet raised a brow at him.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” He took a sip of his drink and added dryly, “He was usually the one under _me_ , anyway.”

Now Knock Out burst into full laughter, setting his glass down so that he wouldn’t drop it. At first, Ratchet just shook his head at him, but it wasn’t long before he started chuckling too, and then they were both laughing in earnest.

“My,” Knock Out said, when he could finally get a word out, “your processor certainly gets loose when you’re drunk, doesn’t it?”

“Drunk?” Ratchet shook his head, suppressing his mirth with a sip of engex. “Not in a hundred vorns. My FIM-chip has been engaged for years. It’s the taste I enjoy, not the charge.”

Knock Out stopped abruptly, and turned to face him. “What?”

“What? Oh, don’t be dramatic. You got what you wanted.” Ratchet refilled his glass, still half-smiling. “And you haven’t exactly been honest with me, either. I know Cybertronian engex is nothing to you Velocitronians. Your chip might as well be engaged, too.”

Knock Out couldn’t find it in him to be actually upset, so he only shrugged, and pushed his glass over to be refilled too. “I suppose we’re just a lot of liars, then.”

“We’ve both omitted things,” said Ratchet. He passed Knock Out’s full cup back. “In times of strife, you learn to tell a bot only what he needs to know.”

“That is a terrible excuse for stringing me along,” Knock Out said.

“I did no such thing.”

“Hmph.” Knock Out picked up his glass and raised it. “Well, in the interest of being honest.”

Ratchet copied him. “From now on.”

They drank, and Knock Out peered at Ratchet over the rim of his cup.

“Still,” he said at length, “you’re being very forthcoming for a sober bot.”

Ratchet leaned one elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand, watching Knock Out idly for a moment. Then he shrugged one shoulder.

“I am. You’ve tried so hard to get something out of me. I… appreciate the effort.”

Knock Out waited. Ratchet smirked at him.

“It’s your turn, then,” he said. “I expect you to be as generous as I was.”

“I should have known,” Knock Out said, shaking his head. He took his time, drinking his engex slowly and gazing at nothing in particular. Ratchet nudged him with a foot.

“I don’t have all night.”

“Don’t rush me, you antique,” said Knock Out. He was smiling. “I have many stories, I’m trying to pick one…”


End file.
